


Operation: Help Bucky Barnes, OR, An Atlantean Prince’s Guide to Love and Romance for Surface Dwellers

by Chex (provetheworst)



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Invaders (Marvel), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Comic Book Science, M/M, New Year's Eve, The Invaders, World War II, aerial dogfight, not mcu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Chex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toro and Namor decide it's high time something is done about the Bucky-pining-over-Steve situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation: Help Bucky Barnes, OR, An Atlantean Prince’s Guide to Love and Romance for Surface Dwellers

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:
> 
> This fic starts in the summer of 1944, and ends on January 1st, 1945. I've done my fightin' best to make most of it reasonably accurate to the actual, legitimate circumstances of the war, but certain liberties have been taken because, you know, it's comics fanfic and certain things happened way differently due to the presence of superhumans. I took some liberties here and there, particularly with the capabilities of the Luftwaffe in late 1944.
> 
> Also worth mentioning: Namor is 22 in this. Bucky and Toro are 19-ish. Steve is 24. Jim is like 5 if you want to be weird and technical.
> 
> I am asofterbucky on tumblr. If you want to come say hi or flail about 616 Steve/Bucky or whatever, FEEL FREE.

Though it's beneath him, Namor nonetheless finds himself plotting with one surface-dweller to come to the aid of another surface-dweller, because of course the damned air breathers can’t sort out their own affairs. Though the Invaders have earned Namor’s grudging respect, this is truly pathetic.

“So you agree we gotta do something, right?” Toro asks, leaning forward, fingers pressed together in front of his face. He, at least, has no complaints about the summer heat, clad as he is - unlike Rogers and Barnes, with their constant complaining about the humidity and the sun. Toro’s ability to ignore the heat may be the only thing about him Namor really admires outside of his bravery, which is generic enough to hardly merit notice. “We can’t let this go on any longer. Bad for morale or whatever, probably.”

“Not that I’m overly concerned about your morale,” Namor replies coolly, with all the distant regality of a prince who knows he will one day rule all the oceans, “but I suppose it is for the best if one fifth of our team is not busy - floating about like some small shrimp transfixed by the light of an anglerfish’s lure.”

“I don’t know what any of that means, but sure,” Toro says. He crosses his arms over his skinny chest and nods, looking back toward where the Invaders’ tents are set up for the night.

“What does Jim think of your plan?”

“That I should lay off it? I wouldn’t’a even talked to you if he hadn’t said no.”

“All the better, then,” Namor says. He puts his arms behind his head and leans back, peering up at the starry sky. They’re camped outside - no fires tonight, not even from the torches, lest they be spotted - and he refuses to sleep inside one of the damnable tents, lest the others start trying to hold him accountable for helping them set the things up. Whoever came up with the process for setting up tents would have been killed, had he dared try to suggest such a foolish thing under Namor’s reign. 

The stream near their campsite isn’t deep enough to submerge himself in, but Namor finds comfort staying near water, meager and dirty as it is. It’s better than a tent. “We’ll make sure they work together on our next mission, if nothing else.”

“Well, sure,” Toro says. “That’s not gonna be enough to -”

Namor raises a hand. “Hush, boy. Of course not. But it’s a start. Namor requires time to think.”

“I was thinking we find a way to get Cap to walk in on ‘im while Buck’s changing.”

“Simple, but perhaps effective,” Namor says. He nods thoughtfully. Toro may be annoying, but he does at times have acceptable ideas, especially as regards the courtship processes of surface dwellers. “If we can engineer it. Leave something in Bucky’s tent; ask Steve to retrieve it?”

“He’s gonna get suspicious if I don’t just get whatever by myself, though,” Toro says.

“We’ll find a way,” Namor declares. “I am a prince of the blood. I will not be stymied by so meager a challenge.”

-

Two days later - after taking out a passel of Nazi spies who were trying to get from northern France to England with fake documents on their side with an utterly unconvincing effort to say they were actually double agents - Toro declares it time for the plan to go ahead, just ahead of Operation Dragoon, because they may as well get it out of the way before the move to liberate France really gets going. There might not be time later, Toro reasons, and Namor doesn’t argue.

The Invaders are holed up in a country villa, the space loaned to them by grateful landowners who take the opportunity to flee the area while the team watches their back. They’re allowed full run of the place. It means a bath and warm beds for a night or two before they’re called to join in at the front.

“These are some seriously nice digs,” Toro says, rifling through the larder eagerly. “What’ve we got here - aw, French champagne, that’ll do it.”

“You don’t think a red better suited to your plans?” Namor asks, wearily.

“Shoot, you’re right.” Toro tosses the bottle at Namor anyway - Namor catches it, eyebrows arching in disdain, though Toro misses the reaction entirely, focused as he is on rooting through the wine. “White, white, white, that … pink stuff, rose? Ro-zay? How do you say that?”

“I have no idea,” Namor says. “It’s all the same to me. If I’d known how terrible the fermented beverages you lot subject yourself to were, I’d have packed the jet full of Atlantean liquor -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Toro says. “But you didn’t, whatever.”

Namor lifts his chin high and crosses his arms. He almost throws the bottle of champagne aside, but that would be a disservice to the house, which, for all that it was built by the French, is of tolerable construction. The architecture here is finer than what he was subjected to in America, at the very least. Besides - foul as the swill might taste, it does the job.

“Still can’t believe you’re going along with me on this.”

“Keep questioning me and I may change my mind,” Namor says.

“Yeah, yeah.”

-

Step one of the plan, such as it is, involves Toro suggesting a party.

“For what?” Steve asks. “We have a mission coming up.”

“All the more reason we have fun tonight!” Toro puts his hands on his hips, head held high. “We could all die, and when’s the next time we’ll be someplace fancy as this? Deeper we go into enemy territory, the worse it’ll get. Look, I even found wine.”

“We shouldn’t take advantage,” Steve says. “At least save the celebrating for when we’ve won.”

“No way. Let’s do it now while we’re still alive. Buck, hey! Where are you?”

Bucky leans his head over the railing next to the top of the steps, shouting back downstairs. “Up checkin’ out the bedrooms. Why, what’d you need?”

“You wanna party tonight?”

Bucky bounds down the steps. “Toro, your words are music to my ears. C’mon, Cap, don’t make that face. We could die tomorrow.”

“Toro just said that.” Steve sighs. “Fine, fine. We can have a party. Now what’re you -”

“Yes! Jim, Namor! Where the hell are you guys?” Toro zips off to find them, leaving Bucky and Steve slightly confused in his wake.

“I don’t know what kinda party it’s gonna be with just the five of us,” Bucky says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Not that I don’t like your company and all, but it’s not like we got girls to keep us company or anything fun.”

“Toro’s just restless,” Steve decides. “We’ll have dinner, he can drink until he passes out. Normally I’d say that’s an awful idea, but …”

“But he’s got that whole -” Bucky wiggles his fingers. “‘Ooh, look at me, I can light on fire, somehow I don’t get hangovers ‘cuz of it! I’m so great!’ What a creep.”

Steve shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Outta all of us, I got to say, I think Toro’s got it best for drinking. You ever miss it, Cap? That serum of yours -”

“I still drink,” Steve says with a shrug. “Just doesn’t do much.”

“Huh,” Bucky says fondly. “Guess I haven’t been paying attention.”

Jim and Namor finally appear, following along in Toro’s wake as he comes back, arms raised high, a bottle of wine clutched triumphantly in each hand. 

“What’s this about a party?” Jim asks. “Toro’s been trying to explain what we’re celebrating, but …”

“We’re celebrating not being dead, pappy,” Toro says. “For a guy who lights himself on fire, you ain’t very bright sometimes.”

“I just don’t see how that differs from any other night.”

“‘Cuz I say so?”

“The boy may be an idiot, but I see no problem with acknowledging how astonishing it is that the lot of you aren’t yet dead,” Namor says, arms crossed across his chest. “Would only that I’d been given enough advance warning to retrieve some ale from fair Atlantis that we might drink something tolerable for once.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, surface liquor sucks, we get it,” Toro says. “At least it still works. Did I mention we could all die tomorrow?”

“Great reminder,” Bucky says. “Gimme one of those bottles, let’s do this.”

-

Toro leans over to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Hey. Hey. I think Bucky’s about to fall asleep there.”

“I’m awake, fuck you.” Bucky lifts a hand, slowly folding down all his fingers save for the middle. He waves it in the general direction of Toro’s voice, not bothering to lift his head from Steve’s shoulder.

“You do seem like you’re about done for the night,” Steve says.

“Mm, nah, I can go for hours,” Bucky says. “I’m awake as I’ve ever been. Gimme a gun and I’ll shoot a Nazi from fifty yards.”

“Only fifty?” Toro asks.

“I said I could go for hours, not that I was sober,” Bucky says. “Fifty. I bet you my whole damn chocolate ration -”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Toro says. “Steve. Get this kid to bed. He’s gonna pass out.”

“I ain’t gonna pass out,” Bucky grumbles. “Go set yourself on fire, matchstick.”

Toro clutches his hands to his heart, reeling backwards. “Aw, Buck, I’m wounded. You’re killin’ me here! Make it stop, Steve, make ‘im stop.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Steve says, smiling fondly in Bucky’s general direction. “What am I, your father?” He puffs up his chest, voice going mock stern. “Come on, kids, don’t fight. What would your mother say?”

“Nope,” Toro says. “No, no, no. That’d be weird. I’ve already got a surrogate father figure. And I’m pretty sure Bucky doesn’t need one, either.”

“I’m not going to pull rank to get him to shut up. He told you to set yourself on fire. You do that every single day, Toro.”

“It was rude, is what it was,” Toro says. He wanders his way to the liquor cabinet they’ve been taking from so liberally and pours himself another drink, and one for Bucky. “He didn’t say it in the spirit of - the spirit of camaraderie.” 

Bucky reaches out his hands, grabbing at the air. “Is that for me? C’mere, gimme, hey.”

“I don’t know if -” Steve starts, but Toro gives Bucky the glass anyway and Bucky knocks it back like a shot. “Well, okay.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, letting his head drop to Steve’s shoulder again once he’s done. He holds the glass out toward Toro. “Get rid of this.”

“Just set it down.”

“Toroooo.”

“You’re useless,” Toro declares, but he takes the glass because he’s trying to facilitate things here, not just ineffectively needle Bucky like usual. If Bucky gets up, maybe Steve won’t let him sit down so close again. 

Ten minutes later, Bucky tries to stand up to get another drink, wobbles, and sits right back down.

“Maybe you should get to bed,” Steve says. “It’s going to be an early day tomorrow.”

“I gotta take a minute.” Bucky closes his eyes, grinning. He feels dizzy and warm, and his face is already hot even before Steve lifts a hand to rub circles at his back.

“You need help?”

“Aw, you gonna carry him?” Toro asks. Steve’s laugh is bright and loud.

“C’mon, no, I can -” Bucky starts, but Steve is already on his feet. In no place to argue, Bucky goes along with it as Steve leans down to pick him up, one arm steady under his back and the other at his knees. “Aw, Steve.”

From the other side of the room, Namor looks up from the hours-long chess game he’s been playing with Jim, and says, “Finally.”

“He hasn’t been that annoying,” Steve says, and Namor just snorts and looks away, so Steve lets it rest and carries Bucky up the stairs. Voice lower now, Steve asks, “Which room did you want, again?”

“Mm, master bedroom,” Bucky slurs sleepily. He rests his head against Steve’s chest. “Fanciest they got, Mr. Rogers. You gotta treat me right.”

“All right, Buck, you’re drunk.” Steve pushes a few doors open, searching for the fanciest bedroom, which turns out to be at the very end of the hall. There’s a big four-poster bed, a delicate white canopy hanging down around it. “But would you look at that, I found the royal suite.”

“I ain’t royalty, I’m a goddamn American,” Bucky says, giggling. “You gotta remember. We don’t got nobles.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says.

“S’not legal. All men’re created equal.”

“Sure.” Steve sets him down on the bed, and Bucky yawns, stretching all his limbs out as far as they’ll go. “Do you need me to tuck you in, or can you manage?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Wait, I got choices?”

“No,” Steve says.

“You just asked. Now you gotta.” Bucky closes his eyes. “And I should get rid of all these clothes, huh? Before I sleep. I don’t know if I can manage.”

“You’re going to have the worst hangover tomorrow,” Steve says, heading for the hallway.

“Yeah, okay.” Bucky sighs, sitting up to start untying his boots. “Night, Steve.”

“Night, Buck.”

Bucky buries his face in a pillow and lets out a heavy sigh as Steve shuts the door quietly behind him.

-

When Steve reenters the room where the Invaders have spent their evening, Toro lets out a put-upon sigh. “You’re back early.”

Steve pauses. “What?”

“From.” Toro waves a hand toward the stairs. “Y’know.”

“From attending to Bucky,” Namor supplies helpfully from his corner.

“Attending to … you mean carrying his drunk ass to bed?”

“Yeah.” Toro sounds more dejected than he has any right to. “That.”

Steve laughs incredulously. “What was I supposed to do, stay and sing him a lullaby?”

“This is hopeless,” Namor tells Toro, and Steve decides it’s better to ignore them both in favor of examining the chess board Namor and Jim are still hunched over.

“Ignore them,” Jim says. Steve moves a piece for him. “Oh, that’s - thanks.”

“I think I’m going to turn in myself,” Steve says finally.

“Yes, that’s more like it!” Toro cheers.

Steve stares at him; Namor just sighs.

-

The shelling starts at 5:16 AM, nearly an hour before Steve had planned to rouse the other Invaders. They flee by foot into the woods near the house with little incident, other than a brief pause for Bucky to throw up. Namor does not bother to slow for this, and the others catch up to him soon enough. It’s still dark and a heavy fog obscures the area.

It’s Jim who figures out where the shelling’s originating from, and so the lot of them set off to the east, where they engage with the enemy just after seven. It’s a small force. Bucky gets up in a tree with his rifle and manages to take out a man in the middle of feeding more ammunition into a gun. He also manages not to throw up again, though he comes awfully close.

Namor goes after the communications officer before he can radio for help, then aids the others in clearing the rest of the German detachment. Immediate threat dealt with, Jim melts the artillery to slag while the rest of the Invaders stand back and watch.

“So, what’s for breakfast?” Toro asks, rubbing his hands together.

“Shut the hell up,” Bucky says.

“Now, now, Toro, play nice,” Steve says. “I’m sure Bucky never wants to eat again -”

“And you can’t make me,” Bucky says. 

“I’ll give you all my chocolate right now,” Toro says, “if you eat all of it. Like, right now, on the march.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky says. 

“I’d say I hope you learned something about drinking heavily before a mission, but …” Steve shrugs.

“He did manage to shoot Gerry back there,” Toro finally allows. “I’d say he’s doing all right.”

Bucky groans, hands shoved deep in his pockets.“Doing all right, sure, but feeling like I’m the one who got shot in the head from fifty yards.”

Steve pats him on the back, then lets his hand rest there, steadying and warm. “You did good, Buck. You going to be all right?”

“Ain’t got a choice.”

“I’d say you could find someplace to sit this one out, but I figure you wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Got it in one.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Steve says, like he doesn’t already. Bucky stares straight ahead, watching as the last of the Germans’ armament burns. 

-

The interlude at the house in France over, the Invaders find themselves once more at war. They have never not been at war, technically, not so long as they’ve been a group. Moving east, they regroup with Spitfire and Union Jack, run missions that bring them into Poland and Germany as planned.

There’s little chance for restful sleep or time to play lengthy games of chess.

“This is the worst,” Toro tells Namor.

Namor can’t bring himself to argue, nor can he withhold a sigh. “War often is.”

“I don’t mean that. Well, I do mean that, but I meant the plan.”

“The plan - oh,” Namor says. He turns away, crossing his arms. Chin lowered, he paces a few steps away. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“It’s not like there’d even be a chance for them to, to, you know,” Toro says. “It’s just - I don’t know how much longer this war’s gonna go on, you know? And Bucky’s …”

“He’s human.”

“Hey, now,” Toro says, without venom. “So’re most of us.”

Namor turns to Toro again. He’s being surprisingly candid tonight, and lacking most of his usual smug detachment. “He’s the most vulnerable of us.”

“I keep thinking, if one of us is gonna die …”

“I know.”

“Next time we’re in England, we gotta put something together. Pull out all the stops. Even if the two of them don’t do nothin’, we should at least make sure Bucky has a good time, right?”

“What about yourself?”

“Well, yeah, if we’re throwing a party, of course I’m gonna go,” Toro says. “This isn’t all selflessness, y’know. Just the bit where I want Steve and Bucky to get their shit together. You know what me and Bucky both missed out on?”

“What?”

“Prom,” Toro says.

Namor stares at him uncomprehending.

“You know! Prom! It’s a whole to-do. It’s like a, a dance.”

-

It’s two months before they see England again as a group - Bucky has a solo mission there at one point, and briefly Jim and Toro are sent over to help defend London and part of the old-but-still-useful Chain Home network from a particularly brutal bombing run by the Germans, but finally the lot of them are together again. 

The Atlantean flagship lands in an airfield, greeted by a ragged cheer from the RAF pilots and crew stationed there. Namor disembarks first, though the enthusiasm of the RAF members present ratchets up significantly further when Captain America steps onto British soil.

No matter; there’s still conflict between Atlantis and the surface world, for all that Namor is aiding in this conflict. Even if his innate superiority goes unrecognized, Namor will always be aware of it. 

Jim and Toro are already in the briefing room when Steve and Namor arrive, and Bucky trails in, Jackie following on his heels, moments later.

They are technically in the middle of a major offensive down on the continent, but the Germans have rallied some of the Luftwaffe, somehow, for a planned assault on Britain in the coming few nights, depending on the weather. Everyone’s hoping the weather will stay miserable, but hope is a terrible defense.

Thus, the Invaders were called back from Ardennes to defend against an attack that may or may not come. The main reason for this is because Namor’s airship will help maintain air superiority, apparently. Probably they just want Jim and Toro around.

“Do I get to help with the guns on the flagship?” Bucky asks, rubbing his hands together and leaning forward over the table eagerly during a lull in their briefing.

“If you wish,” Namor says. “Unless there’s objections from Fighter Command?”

There aren’t. 

-

Nothing happens before or on Christmas, which affords Bucky and Toro the luxury of going out dancing; Bucky even helps Toro score.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Toro tells Namor the next morning.

“That a woman wanted to see you naked?”

“Fuck off,” Toro says. “I meant that we were trying to help him out, and he gets me with the girl of my dreams without even tryin’. He’s my best friend. I gotta do something.”

“We haven’t been very successful,” Namor allows. He looks thoughtful. “Your new year begins soon, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm. There’s the tradition of kissing when the clock strikes midnight.”

Toro brightens right up, at that. “Of course, that’s it! That’s perfect. Namor, you’re a star, you know that?”

Namor runs a hand through his hair, chin lifted skyward. “I’ve received similar compliments before. But it doesn’t hurt to hear again.”

“Aw, shut up.” Toro flicks a piece of lint at him, which Namor dusts off his shoulder disdainfully after it lands. “Okay. New year it is.”

-

By mid-afternoon of the twenty sixth, Germany launches its assault, which carries on through the day.

Bucky’s manning the cannon of the royal flagship that evening, with Namor flying. Steve stays on the ground rather than weigh the plane down with another passenger, instead helping wherever he can, while Toro and Jim keep to the skies under their own power. The latter three are mostly going after barrage balloons and intercepting bombs as they fall from German planes, while the Atlantean flagship chases off the German fighters to allow the RAF to go after the slower bombers.

Namor could let someone else pilot his ship and fly under his own power, but he gets a little defensive of his personal aircraft. Bucky is the only one he really trusts to fly it in combat, other than himself. Rogers, as strong a tactician and fighter as he is, just doesn’t have quite the same degree of experience with flying.

“Blam, got ‘em!” Bucky cheers, even as Namor banks sharply right to avoid a strafing run from a German fighter. “Shit, shit.”

“It’s almost the new year,” Namor says.

“Sure is. You makin’ any resolutions, Subby?” Bucky asks. He narrows his eyes, chewing on his lower lip as he tries to take aim, but the pilot they’re currently locked in a dogfight with is good, juking aside whenever Bucky thinks he’s got him in his sights. With Namor’s flying, they’re not getting shot, either, but it’s a frustrating deadlock.

The German plane will probably turn tail and run before the Atlantean flagship runs out of fuel, but Bucky would really like to shoot them down instead of letting them run. 

It takes Namor a moment to answer, focused as he is on piloting. The old, patched-up ME-109 they’ve been chasing wheels around on them, bringing its machine guns to bear. The flagship jerks in the air, but nothing vital is hit and the armor holds; Bucky holds his breath as Namor banks a hard right. 

They even out again and resume pursuit. The German craft can’t have much time left in the air. As they twist and weave through the air, Namor picks the thread of conversation up again. “Resolutions?”

“Yeah, y’know.” Bucky shrugs, not that Namor can see it. “You make plans for the new year. Resolve yourself to do stuff you want to change or achieve or whatever. Like, folks’ll make a resolution to save more money, or pick up a new hobby. That kind of thing. Easier to think about things like that if you’re not in the middle of a dogfight, though.”

“Ah,” Namor says.

“So’s a prince of the blood like you got anything he’d try to do better in the new year, or you too busy being perfect?”

“I can think of things I might do differently,” Namor says finally. “But I won’t be telling you.”

Bucky laughs. “You’re a real funny guy.”

The German fighter they’ve been after is on the run, leaving the rest of the battle. There’s a bomber still dropping its payload over London, but the RAF - from the radio chatter - seems to be en route to handle it. Namor gives chase to the fighter that hit them earlier, following it almost all the way to the channel before Bucky manages to get in a disabling shot to the right engine. 

With a billow of smoke, the plane goes down in the water, and Namor swings the Atlantean flagship back around for a proper landing and to refuel. The Atlantean technology means the plane can stay in the air far longer than anything the British or Germans are bringing to the field, but even Atlantis’ engineers have their limits. A dogfight is a dogfight, and fuel is finite, and burnt far quicker when acrobatics are called for over straight and steady flying. 

While they wait for ground crews to help with refueling, Namor says, “Where do you see yourself after the war?”

“What? Hell, I don’t know.”

“You want to remain by Rogers’ side?” Namor asks, clarifying only somewhat. “I have a kingdom to attend to, and I assume Jim has - something he wants to do. Settle down and try to live among you surface dwellers, I imagine. Pretend at humanity -”

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice takes on an edge.

Namor huffs out a laugh. “He’s more human than many of your kind, I know, but he is what is is. I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“You, not insulting Jim? Sure.”

“Hush. We’re not talking about Hammond. We’re talking about you and Rogers.”

“I mean, I guess I - I don’t know what else I’d do, really. I figure he’ll probably … go back home, do his thing there. Bust up crime rings or something once we’ve got the Nazis beat.” Bucky shakes his head. “I’ve never really thought about doing anything besides fighting. There’ll be another war soon enough, if we even make it through this one. Seems kind of useless thinking about the future when things’re so ...”

Namor rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not being direct enough. You’re in love with Steve.”

Bucky’s mouth makes it halfway to a smile before falling, along with the rest of his face. He drops his head, face in his hands. “So?”

“So do something about it,” Namor says. “I should have said something months ago. Watching you pine is tragic.”

“It’s not gonna - for one, he’s not going to want to. I mean, I’m me, and he’s Captain America.”

“And Captain America is only a man,” Namor says. “A singular one, but human.”

“Still,” Bucky says.

“The year ends soon,” Namor says. “And Toro insists we have another party.”

“Changing topics already, huh?” Bucky asks, laughing. “Gee, Subby, great chat. If you were anybody else I’d punch you right in your smug little face for even bringing it up.”

Namor’s lips thin.

They’re in the air again within twenty minutes for their third sortie of the evening. Namor’s beginning to feel a certain tiredness - not physically, but of the mind, from hours on end spent flying and worrying needlessly over his compatriots.

So far, three German fighters and one bomber have been shot down, including the one Bucky got earlier; the RAF have lost one plane, and another is damaged and awaiting assessment to see whether or not it should be repaired or written off. It’s a busy night over Britain.

“I wasn’t changing topics,” Namor says later, as the flagship taxis to prepare for takeoff. “Toro wants to turn the new year celebration into -” He pauses, fumbling for the word. “I believe the word is prom?”

“You can’t have prom at New Year’s,” Bucky says, laughing. “Jeez, Toro. What a guy.”

“I’m told there will be dancing.” Namor focuses on getting the plane off the ground, then, as its ascent levels off, continues. “You should ask Rogers.”

“Steve never dances, you know that.”

“Tell him it’s part of your prom ritual,” Namor says. “A necessary part. The ceremonial - dance with ...”

“I think Steve knows what prom is,” Bucky says, cutting him off. “And that ain’t gonna cut it. Is this - are you trying to set us up?”

Namor doesn’t look at him when he answers, barely even acts like he’s speaking to Bucky at all. “Your pining is bad for morale. A prince must - must notice these things among those he surrounds himself with, even if they’re not his subjects.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says. “So you feel sorry for me.”

“Of course not.”

“I swear, so much of the shit you say, I’d punch anyone else for,” Bucky says.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I won’t. I know better,” Bucky says. “I promise, unless I get mind-controlled by the Skull or something, I won’t punch you. Unless you wage war on the surface again, I guess.”

“Atlantis will defend herself if she must,” Namor says placidly. “Now, about the upcoming festivities.”

-

“Where in the hell did you learn to dance, anyway?” Bucky asks, trying his hardest not to crack up laughing.

Namor, as it turns out, knows how to dance the jitterbug better than most of the girls Bucky’s danced with over the past three years, yet this is the first time Bucky’s ever seen him do it. Namor rolls his eyes. “Surface women are easily impressed.”

“I’d think bein’ a prince of the blood would be enough to impress ‘em, but sure,” Bucky says. Namor’s roped him into a dance; it’s around eleven thirty, near enough to the turning of the year, and an apparent diplomatic necessity. 

Namor’s footwork is quick, his movement fluid in a way that’s still sort of alien to Bucky even after years serving together. Bucky can see why the ladies are so impressed. Namor’s even got a suit on for once, instead of his teeny little scaled shorts.

If Bucky weren’t so hung up on his captain, he might think about it. But. He throws a glance over his shoulder; Steve’s still staring in absolute bewilderment. Namor and Steve danced together first, then Namor had danced with half the girls present before declaring that Bucky had to dance with him as well.

For diplomatic reasons, of course, since Steve and Bucky are official members of the US military, and such valuable symbols to their nation. Bucky didn’t really pay attention, because it was stupid and funny and more fun to watch Steve’s face while Namor explained.

He’s having fun, and Steve’s watching, so it’s all working pretty well, as far as Bucky is concerned. 

“There’s going to be a slower song after this,” Namor says, conversational. His footwork is ridiculous. Bucky’s having a hard time remembering to dance himself. “And then no more dancing until the new year. I’ve been told there’s a countdown.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. The song’s winding down as it is. He doesn’t look at Steve this time, for fear of being too obvious.

Namor says, “Follow me.”

Bucky does.

Namor marches right up to Steve and says, “Now you and Barnes have to dance.”

“We what?” Steve asks. “I don’t get how that’s …”

“You dare question a prince of the blood?”

“Namor’s been saying it’s some ritual, Steve, we gotta dance. You don’t want to ruin our diplomatic relations with Atlantis, do ya?”

Toro’s somehow wrangled Jackie into dancing with him most of the night, but he passes her off to Jim, who looks as if he has absolutely no idea what to do. Bucky sort of wants to see how that plays out, but -

“Well, why not?” Steve says, looking bewildered but amused. He offers his arm. “Shall we dance?”

“Aw, you’re so old fashioned,” Bucky says.

The next song the band strikes up, proving Namor true to his word, is a sweet, slow little waltz. A fella dancing with another fella isn’t that strange, especially not if it’s for a laugh and there’s not enough dames to go around. Bucky reminds himself of that. There’s definitely something funny in Cap dancing with his kid sidekick.

Part of him wants someone with a camera to get the jump on them so he can ham it up, but nobody’s got one tonight. He’ll just have to remember this.

Most times on the dancefloor, Bucky leads, so it takes a few seconds to figure out how to be led instead. Steve’s not actually that great a dancer - very staid, watching his own feet most of the time and trying hard not to step on Bucky’s toes. It’s sort of sweet.

Bucky’s mostly glad Steve’s not looking at him, because his face is bright red. He’s got his most ridiculous grin plastered on, but he feels transparent, too-obvious to the world. He wants to step in closer than they are, hide his face against Steve’s shoulder maybe so no one can see, but that’d look even weirder.

This idea sounded great when he and Namor cooked it up, but now Bucky just feels silly and selfish. He doesn’t deserve to have Steve humoring him like this. If Steve had wanted to he probably could have talked Namor down, especially seeing as Namor really isn’t placing any actual diplomatic weight - or whatever the hell he’d been using as an excuse - on the dancing.

But here they are, and it’s nearly the new year, and Steve’s got one arm tentatively hovering maybe a half inch off of Bucky’s side and with the other they’ve got their hands clasped together and if this is all Bucky gets, if he never even gets to kiss Cap, he thinks he can die a happy man.

Steve’s hands are so big and warm. His fingers are rough, calloused from throwing that shield around. Bucky’s own hands can’t be much better. Just this morning he’d been practicing breaking down his rifle again just for want of anything better to do while waiting and hoping the fog would keep the Luftwaffe away long enough that they could have another night off. The fog did its job, and here they are.

They go ‘round in circles, keeping the waltz as basic as it can possibly be, and Bucky makes a mental note to thank Namor later.

“Think Atlantis’ll stay allied with the surface after this?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t risk trying to step closer or squeeze Steve’s hand or anything outside of the careful confines of the waltz as-is so far.

“They’d better,” Steve says.

“I’m surprised you’re taking two nights off. Practically right in a row. You’re slacking, Cap.”

“I was up at seven this morning meeting with Churchill and Eisenhower,” Steve says, apparently confident enough in his steps now that he dares to look up. His smile is tired. “If I could be anywhere in the world right now? I’d be asleep. Anyplace with a bed.”

“Aw, jeez,” Bucky says. “Hope you ain’t staying up on my account.”

“Wanted to see the new year in right,” Steve says.

“Well.”

Steve leans in close to whisper to him. “We’re shipping out again tomorrow.”

Bucky doesn’t ask where to. Maybe later, if they get some privacy, he will; for now, if Cap’s not saying, then he doesn’t need to know. He’s assuming they’re headed back for the Ardennes forest. That’s where they were before heading back; no reason to assume they’ll be headed anywhere else. Of course, they just as well could head off to Thailand or Japan or somewhere along the eastern front. He’s heard the Russians have something planned out that way, though god knows what. It’s that or something Hydra’s up to, which could be anywhere on the face of the earth. They’ve fought gods and monsters and already Bucky’s stopped wondering what might come next. “Of course we are.”

“Probably won’t get another night like this for a while,” Steve says, and he actually sounds sort of wistful. “It’s kind of nice, really.”

“Thought you hated taking time off.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “I don’t know. There’s something about the holidays, I guess.”

“Got any New Year’s resolutions?” Bucky asks. 

The song stops. Steve lets go, and Bucky turns to look toward the front of the room; Steve stays standing right by his side. “I don’t know,” Steve says. “I just want to win this thing. I don’t want to think too far ahead. Anything I can do to help … Saying I want to stop the Nazis sounds so cliche. And it won’t be me alone who does it, so it’s not like I can make it a resolution. I guess not, no. What about you?”

“Huh.” Bucky puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

Toro edges over, says, “Three minutes until it’s a whole new year, fellas! You ready for ‘45?”

“Sure,” Bucky laughs. “I ain’t got a choice. None of us has a say in how time works, Toro, c’mon.”

“Maybe if we got that cosmic cube thing,” Toro says. “Just make it ‘44 forever.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says.

“Just because we’re having a nice night doesn’t mean it’s a good night for everyone,” Steve says. “I wouldn’t want ‘44 to last any longer than it has to.”

“You’re in luck, then,” Bucky says.

Up front, the lady who was singing some of the songs the band played earlier is tapping at a microphone, announcing that there’s just one minute left until the year’s over.

Toro says, “Aw, hell, I gotta find that last girl I was dancing with. Gotta have somebody to kiss once it hits midnight, you know? Eh? Eh?”

With that, Toro scrambles off.

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “He’s a weird kid.”

“Hey, he’s my age.”

“You’re more mature,” Steve says. “Still.”

“Ten,” the lady’s saying, and most of the room joins in. “Nine. Eight.”

“Still?” Bucky asks.

Steve rolls his eyes. Seven, six. “Still,” he repeats.

They get down to one, then zero, and the whole room cheers, and Bucky thinks to hell with it and grabs Steve by the back of the head, dragging him down into a kiss, because he might as well get ‘45 started off right, and if he’s got to he can say it was a joke or he was drunk or he got carried away with enthusiasm. Something stupid. Bucky’s good at excuses when he needs to be.

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and Bucky’s all ready to start laughing the second he gets pushed away, only that doesn’t happen. For one impossible second, Steve kisses him back, then pulls away, says, “Maybe not in front of everybody?”

“It’s New Year’s, Cap,” Bucky reminds him. “You’re supposed to kiss somebody anyway. Nobody’s gonna mind.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Just - right, New Year’s.”

Bucky’s the one to lean in and whisper, this time. “I’d kiss you any day of the year, you know. If you wanted me to.”

“Jeez, Buck.” Steve laughs, a hand going to the back of his neck. His cheeks are an interesting shade of pink.

“Party’ll be going for a while, but we’ve got an early morning, right? Everybody knows you like to get to bed real early,” Bucky says.

Steve is looking at him like Bucky is something new and unfamiliar; he’s got that look in his eyes he gets when he’s assessing a new situation and thinks he can win.

Bucky takes that as a good sign, and dredges up every last ounce of courage he’s got. “Whaddaya say, soldier?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Sure am. Look at you, sharp as a tack.” Bucky says, “I don’t even know where we’re staying tonight. Where’ve they been keepin’ you, huh, Steve?”

Steve squares his shoulders and stands up tall, putting on his best serious face. “If anyone asks, we’re going to discuss tactics.”

As Steve starts to weave his way through the crowd toward the door, Bucky grins at his back and follows along. “Oh, tactics. Sure. We’ll talk about punching Nazis all night long.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called that before?”

Bucky needs a moment to think that over before he figures it out and starts laughing. Steve just grins and looks away.

-

“You know, Namor, I think we’ve done a good thing here today,” Toro says. “Really did our duty to god and country.”

“I owe fealty to neither your god nor your country,” Namor says.

“I mean it’s good we got Steve and Bucky together. You think it worked? I saw them making eyes on the way out. I think we did it.”

“Probably,” Namor allows. 

“Forgot to tell them it was prom night, though.”

“I’m still not sure what prom is.”

“And I told you, it’s a dance!”

“They danced,” Namor says, dubiously. “What more do you want?”

“Prom,” Toro says, sadly.

Namor stares at him, then says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve people waiting on me by the bar. I’ll see you and the others in the morning.”

Toro watches Namor saunter his way on over to a couple who are, as promised, at the bar.

To no one in particular, Toro says, “I’m the only one who isn’t gonna get any action tonight, aren’t I?”


End file.
